Sophie has a new friend

 

Pierre, looking very dignified

Sophie had a gentleman caller tonight, and I’m afraid she’s smitten. His name is Pierre, but no, he’s not a Frenchman. He an Aussiedoodle. He's a bit younger than she—almost a year compared to her ten years. In essence, he's a big, goofy teenager and, as his owner says, sometimes quite clumsy. And he’s about half again as large as Sophie is and probably still growing a bit. But he’s a gentleman. And Sophie did not try to boss him or pull her diva act. They played, chased, and had a grand time.

Pierre belongs to Christian’s college friend, Gary, and they hail from Dallas. Gary may be old friends with Jordan and Christian, but he and I are bonded by a love of dogs, a love of retro food—he likes my chicken Divan and tuna casserole, and a passion for liberal politics. It’s a nice friendship.

Tonight was Jordan’s birthday dinner plus the Chicken Divan I’d been promising Gary. The birthday part was great—ten people, salmon spread, meatballs, a green salad, a fruit salad, and tiny ice cream cones. But the main dish, the chicken I’d cooked for Gary, was a disappointment, at least to me though others liked it. I think the problem was doubling the recipe to serve twelve instead of six. Instead of meat bathed in a rich sauce, we got broccoli in sauce (almost like cheese broccoli soup) and chicken without much sauce. Gary’s suggestion, which I like, is to do it next time with thighs—or I have done it with rotisserie chicken and that might be the answer. But now I have to cook it again to prove that I can do it. But a single recipe.

I had thought I had a good lesson in quantity cooking this morning. I sauteed thirteen pieces of sliced chicken breast—a whole lot easier than pounding halves. Then I cooked three large packages of broccoli. Then I made the sauce. In the late afternoon, I put all three together, and apparently that’s where it went amuck. Except maybe it stayed in the oven too long? Anyway I was a bit disappointed.

Next time, Gary gets Tuna Florentine, and we will not have any other guests, though tonight’s was a jolly gathering of a very few of Jordan’s good friends, my friend Jean, Gary, Jordan, Christian, and me. All people I’m fond of, and the conversation was lively.

Like yesterday, it was another day when I had not given myself another chore except to cook the Chicken Divan—and I could snatch moments at my computer, while the various components were cooking. Tonight, though the dishes are all done and put away and the kitchen is clean, I cannot say I have written a word until this blog. That’s been a thread on a blog I follow: is writing work or pleasure? I finally decided that for me the two aspects are so intertwined I can’t separate them. Writing is what I do, it’s my job, and some days it’s drudgery; but some days it is a pure joy, and I’m not sure how to distinguish the two. Maybe I don’t have to.

I haven’t written much this past week and won’t in the coming week, at least at first. This week, it’s been medical appointments and cooking. I’m glad to say the medical appointments have all come out well, with small, minor concerns that we’ll overlook in a woman of my age. And until tonight the cooking came out well—yesterday’s corned beef dinner and the salmon spread served tonight more than saved my reputation. I would love to get back to writing Monday morning, but alas! I have an eye appointment Monday, and—dread! —a root canal Tuesday morning. After that, it’s back to work, but I think I will have to re-read the work-in-progress (Finding Florence, which was until recently, Irene Keeps a Secret). I need to reassess the whole thing.

A note about corned beef: did you know they don’t eat corned beef in Ireland? Or New England. It’s called a boiled beef dinner, with boiled brisket, cabbage, potatoes, onions, and carrots. That doesn’t work for me for a couple of reasons: if I splurge and buy a brisket, I want it cooked long and slow on the grill or in the oven. If I want a boiled dinner, I want the seasonings of corned beef (plus the pickling spices, vinegar, salt and pepper and sugar and, most importantly, ale that I added to it). The corned beef dinner is thought to be a blending of kosher and Irish traditions, which would logically trace back to the days of immigrants in the tenements of New York. A tidbit of history you may not care about, but I find fascinating.

Slainté!